


A Knife for the Beggar

by JustVisible



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Kyrie died in the saviour because I demanded it, M/M, POV First Person, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustVisible/pseuds/JustVisible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All I need is a few drinks, then a painful death. With those two requirements in mind, there turns out to be only one place available that meets them. It’s a two hour ferry ride out of Fortuna and into the mainland, where I’ve never been to before in my life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge (to a very bad night)

My plan for today is refreshingly straight forward; have a shower, get dressed, get drunk, kill yourself. I can’t express how alive that plan makes me feel. How big the grin is on my face; I can feel it, it’s hurting my cheeks. 

So I have my shower, scrubbing myself down leisurely. I try to really enjoy my body while I’m still in it, something I’ve never really done before. I even get a flannel in-between the grooves of the Devil Bringer so it gleams like an alligator’s spine. I don’t feel it on the hide but it’s sensitive in the grooves, right down deep where it glows. I press into the soft inner-webs until it prickles my nerves with a sensation like cold fire. It goes right through me; not bypassing my balls.

So inevitably, I’ve shoehorned ‘masturbate’ between shower and get dressed. So, yeah, I’m really enjoying my body while I have it. I use both hands on my junk and let whatever images decide to pass through my head. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Usually it would. Usually it would bother the shit out of me when I think of the first time I fought Dante and wrapped my legs around his waist midair, or remember the taste of his gun in my mouth, or the smell of his musk, or the imaginary scenarios of him peeling off layers of leather…

It doesn’t bother me now at all, I let the images come. I’ve blown my load before they could’ve outstayed their welcome anyway. As good as it feels it’s not enough to convince me to stay. I’ve had enough. I use more water than I usually dare and stay in until I’m clammy and the hot water goes to ice, washing away the strings of semen. I get out and dry off slow and breezily. 

I walk down to the local — and only — pub in Fortuna in my best clothes. They’re not that great. Just the white uniform of the Order of The Sword. They’re something I rarely wore in the past, which means it’s retained it’s bloodless, creaseless perfection. It causes some people to stare when they see me strutting down the streets at dusk with my arm free and glowing, not to mention wearing such a stigmatic outfit. It’s not discreet, my white hair and white clothes are like a beacon in the light of dusk all by themselves without the assistance of my arm. I guarantee you this; if this was a week ago, I would be unbearably embarrassed. But this is a week later, and a week later, I find I’m not giving two shakes of a rat’s ass what anyone else thinks. I’m going to be dead at the end of the day if I get my way. Nothing matters but my own selfish pleasure right now. And my Selfish Pleasure demands that I feel and be as sexy as possible. 

Arriving at the pub, however, I find out that it’s closed. Half destroyed and standing there in it’s own rubble like a stomped anthill. 

Shit.

I ask around where the nearest pub is; preferably somewhere with a nearby demon infestation. My death plan was to throw myself in front of a bunch of low level demons and let them tear me to shreds. I know how much it’s going to hurt; it’ll be a literal lions den of pain. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, but it’ll be the first time it’s killed me, and that’s what I want. The pain will be a distraction; I don’t want the thoughts that have been plaguing me for a week be plaguing me in my last moments. 

All I need is a few drinks, then a painful death. With those two requirements in mind, there turns out to be only one place available that meets them. It’s a two hour ferry ride out of Fortuna and into the mainland, where I’ve never been to before in my life.

I am determined to get drunk; I need the burn of alcohol and the lightness of self-induced stupidity. I’m dressed up and all! I’m not going out into the limelight without a bit of extra weight to my steps. So I buy a ticket and hop on with all the money I own locked in Red Queen’s case. Red Queen and Blue Rose are on my person; the case is just for the money. Feels good to hold a case full of all your dough, gotta say. Humbling, but you also feel weirdly rich. 

The ferry ride’s okay, the only enjoyment I really get out of it is whenever the boat hits some waves and jumps a couple of feet into the air before crashing back down. It’s quite satisfying to see Fortuna disappear on the horizon. 

When I land, it’s one long bus ride into the City. Capulet City, where there’s a bar called Bullseye Bar, where I can finally get shit-faced, before stumbling to the demon den next door and get mauled to a satisfying end. I grin at my reflection in the window. My hands start to shake with the sudden urge to punch the glass, but I hold it down and remember where I’m going. What I’m doing. No more worries. No more bullshit. 

I step off and make the short walk towards the bar. It’s not that discreet; not to mention it’s right next to a strip club. I’m tempted to have a step inside there and see what those places are all about — there aren’t any of the sort back at Fortuna but here there’s one on nearly every corner. Sticking to the plan, however, I head for the bar. I hide my sword and case of money behind the dumpster, taking a few wads of cash out. If I get mugged, I hope it made the mugger’s day. Truly. 

The pubs dingy but all right. There’s a buzz of conversation, and a horrible smell. I walk straight up to the barman and order a drink; doing my damned best to not pay attention to the fact the noise dialled down on my entrance. Sitting at the stool and looking like Russian snow, I typically heard one or two catcalls. They were jokes, mainly, I know. Homosexuality must be funny around here. 

I’ve had a few glasses of something I couldn’t pronounce ( thought at this point, I couldn’t pronounce ‘Fortuna’ for the life of me) before somebody slides in beside me. I don’t so much as glance at them, but I know it’s a guy, at least. And a prick.

“Hey there sweet cheeks,” he flirts. Oh, and he’s gay. Huzzah for me.

I decide to be nice to him: “Go away.”

He clicked his tongue at me and leant in closer, “You’re awfully well dressed; the last time I saw a boy as pretty and high class as you, I was looking in a fashion magazine. Are you waiting for someone special? Probably running late by now?”

“The grim reaper’s my date tonight, not you. Now piss off.” 

I see in my peripheral that his face took on a shade of pity.

“I mean it,” I try to push the issue and finally look at him. He’s bald, but reasonably young, done up in scuffed leathers and ripped denim. His face is honestly attractive, but he just isn’t my type, “Leave me alone.”

“Babe, c’mon now,” He whispers to me like we’re long time friends, who can talk through important problems, and rests his hand on my thigh, “I can’t change your mind about that?”

Okay, I’m not being nice anymore. I grip his hand, crush his fingers, and punch him in the face. 

I might’ve hit him harder than necessary, because he’s sent across the room and into someone else’s table. Sure it’s not a big room to cross, but still, not a nice distance to be sent. He gets back up on his feet surprisingly quick for a human, eyes wide with indignant rage, as the spilt drinks from the table he crashed made his hard-boiled head glisten. 

“The fuck was that for, you bitch!?” He growled, nostrils flaring, “I’m trying to help you!”

I throw my head back and laugh. It’s manic and out of control, and I have to reel myself down enough to splutter out, “Help me? Ha! You’re just trying to get in my pants due to my…uh…due to my drunkenness…!” I don’t know the word, there’s a good word for what I am right now, but I knew drunkenness was another good word, so I’m going with that.

He chuffs, “A psychopath like you could use a good fuck, that’s all I’m getting at!” 

“Uh, no,” I say holding up a glowing finger and staggering off my stool, “I think the term for my behaviour would be more accurately called violently depressed. While we’re diagnosing, I guess I should inform you that you’re showing symptoms of acute nosy bald guy syndrome.”

I should back off, I really should. But I should also not kill myself. Not a nice thing to do to yourself, when you think about it. But backing off has never been something I’m good at. So ask me — go ahead and ask me — Nero, are you gonna just cool off and sulk in a corner now because this dipshit’s gotten in the way of your plans? Are you? 

Am I? 

Am I hell. 

He rears up at me, “You wanna die, punk?”

“If you’re offering, be my guest, skinhead.” Then I poke his forehead. 

The blow knocks me to the floor. At least I think it was a blow, all I heard was an explosion in my ear and suddenly I’m tonguing a groove in the floorboards. I get kicked in the side and I don’t even react. He doesn’t like that I don’t react. I’m pulled up and backhanded. He calls me a ‘fucking, dead-weight pretty boy’, slaps me around some more ‘till I taste copper, before he lugs me outside. 

I get chucked against a dumpster and it resonates like a muffled gong. I only have time to realise my white pant knees are ruined and that the damp pavement is soaking through before I’m getting punched in the sternum. 

It’s around this point that I turn into an official punching bag. Absorbing blow after blow and not doing anything about it. No one comes out to save me, or even watch me suffer, it’s just me and skinhead. Pretty soon, however, I’m getting pulled up by my gold-trimmed collar and my face is getting shoved into his crotch. His pants are still on as he rubs my open mouth all over his clothed erection. 

I jolt — the last residues of adrenaline from a Nero of one week ago sparking up and fizzing out. He’d fight, surely; I feel it in my muscles. They twitch, wanting to lurch away from the fist in my hair and the zipper that separates a penis from my tongue. But I don’t. Not now. I don’t give a shit. It’s not the first time something like this has happened to me.

I don’t open my eyes, but I feel him pull me away from his crotch, I hear him unzip and whip it out. Fuck, I can smell it. It’s not a bad smell, points to him for showing a bit of care, but it’s not a smell I’d spray around my room. 

In no time at all he’s rubbing my lips with it, greasing them with pre-cum. I tighten them to a thin line to close off access, but it’s easy enough to slip past. I don’t bother to watch my teeth, so they scratch him on the slide in. He swears and wrenches my jaw open, before he starts fucking my mouth. With no friction going on at all apart from the glide of my tongue, he has to go deep for pressure on his dick, so he goes deep. Each thrust forces it’s way past my near non-existent gag-reflex and he fucks my throat open. I don’t suck, I don’t lick, but I moan pitifully and drool, and that’s apparently enough for him. My lips start to slacken, I retract my teeth and my mouth closes around him. He let goes of my jaw, but not my hair. 

It must be my imagination, but it feels as if his dick is hardening in my mouth. Not getting more erect, but the foreskin is getting tougher — rougher against my tongue. I feel the prick of claws in my hair and finally decide to look up. I blink away the tears in my eyes, and see a demon grinning down at me. 

“Don’t worry, puny punk,” it breathes, energy making it’s words reverberate as he enjoys my mouth, “You’ll be dead soon, just like you want. I promise. Just try swallowing around me first…” 

I gag but close my eyes, my body feeling more and more slack, like a rag doll. I’m already dead, as far as I’m concerned. I think about that as I take in the situation; an overly dressed young man, kneeling limply in an alleyway in a strange city, while a demon fucks his head with the promise of fulfilling his death wish afterwards. To think I use to hunt demons like this on the side…

I’m already dead; Nero’s already dead. So just hurry up and make it official. 

I’ve just started sucking on him when I hear a gun being pulled from it’s holster. A gunshot resonates throughout the alleyway and his dick retracts violently from my mouth. The demon screeches before I hear the unmistakable sound of it disintegrating. 

I hear something…a voice calling.

I hear it again, fainter, ‘…kid…?’ I pray that isn’t who I think-…

oh, God, I smell it. I smell him. Oh, god, piss off. Let him piss off. Someone kill me now, please, please, please. Do it now, oh jesus, Lord, stop, kill me now. I’ve had enough. Stop. Just kill me.

“Kid!” It’s by my side and a mile away. A voice that warms more core but sickens it too.

Kill me now, Lord. Oh, deified Sparda, shelter my soul. Sparda, Please, Saviour, come take me away from this man. From this life. He’ll try to save me, I know he will. Don’t let him. Don’t let him save me. Control your child!

I turn to the voice, grasp for the body. With my flailing hands — one a weak human palm, the other a desperate claw — I’ve grabbed his coat, and I scrunch it up in my mismatched fists as I mumble, “kill me…”

“Nero…?”

“Kill me, Damn you!” I scream in his face, my voice breaking, my breath no doubt stinking of alcohol, but I don’t care. Okay, I care a little, but before shame can make me feel worse, I turn away and throw up. I throw up a lot.

His hand is at my back, rubbing it in slow circles, and I wave him off. I spit and growl “damn you” before another wave hits me. He’s still rubbing my back. I swear at him, cursing him and telling him to kill me. But he doesn’t. Instead — once I’m done puking my brains out — I collapse into leather-clad arms and go to the blackness with a roaring conscious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have a sketch in there as a treat for your patience, should you still want to read this story after so long. Nothing fancy, trust me, it was just a quick doodle. (a bit strange as the drawing is actually of the last chapter so....yah. Oh well.)

  
I’m standing to leave in the middle of His Holiness’s monologue when my cursed arm starts to glow. It’s warning me of something. It starts to unnerve me, but I keep up a sense of bravado, for myself and for Kyrie. I’m ready to fight should it come to that. But as the sensation grows stronger, that low thrum of dread I feel in my arm courses through my whole body, and I know that whatever is coming, is right over our heads.

I look up just in time to see a man in red drop from the glass ceiling of the Opera House. He lands right in front of His Holiness.

One look, and _bang_ , he shoots the most powerful man in Fortuna right in the head.

Chaos erupts. Everyone’s running to the doors, the knights are charging at the assassin like the loyal dumb asses they are, and amidst it all there’s me; I'm frozen solid in the middle of a hysteria tornado with Kyrie, my sister, standing behind me.

I am a knight, just like Credo, but everything in my body screams at me to run, run far away from this demon before I catch his eye. He’s on a level I have never encountered before, maybe even beyond my ability. I need to get Kyrie as far away from him as possible.

So I run.

But as I run, it’s slow, Like I’m treading through sludge, and I feel Kyrie’s hand yank away from mine as she cries, “Credo!”

The moment I hear his name, images of Credo start flashing before my eyes; I see him on the first day of adoption, young and stoic and looking like a soon-to-be handsome man. I see him as that man, an adult, as he’s lunging at me with a sword. I see his demon form telling me to run. I see him falling to his death with a hole in his stomach.

“Kyrie!” I yell turning to reach for her again.

When I turn around though, all I see is darkness. Kyrie is gone. I can’t make out a damn thing, but I can feel that I’m in The Saviour now. The walls of it’s heart are closing around me with the goal to squeeze me into paste. The pressure on my skull is insane. I try to reach out, but I can’t move. The squeezing won’t stop.

Then I hear Kyrie whisper to me.

_“You’re sick.”_

And I’m seeing Dante again. He raises up from his crouched position in front of His Holiness. He turns around slow, his red coat and ruggedly handsome face covered in blood makes my stomach churn in a way that is both fraught with nausea and desire. Kyrie’s words echo in my head, and I agree with her, even as I’m doing my damnedest to pull myself out of the heart of the saviour to find him.

When I wake up from that dream, It's to the pull of a song fading in. My head isn’t feeling much better from when it was being squeezed in the saviour’s heart, but it’s the least of my concerns.

I’m tired, lonely and hungover, but the worst part is that I am still alive. Perhaps I got a little too obsessed with the idea…got a bit too carried away and somehow lost myself. Whatever, It doesn’t matter anymore. I failed, as I always do.

I look around the unfamiliar room I’ve found myself in, even though it hurts to move my eyeballs. I’m lying on a couch, and next to me is a pile of pizza boxes. The box on top is open, revealing a meat-lover pacman. There’s also a glass of water, which I tenderly go to reach for. There's a foul taste in my mouth that I desperately need to wash out. With a few swigs, it's still there, at the back of my throat, making each gulp and breath sour. As I swished another mouthful around, I look over at the far corner of the room.

A tall blonde woman clad in black leather is by the jukebox.

“Feeling better?” She drawls without looking at me.

I don’t answer, I swallow and ask a question of my own, “Who’re you?”

She turns to look at me now. Her mannerisms strike me as a bit familiar as she swaggers over towards the couch, “You’ve forgotten me so soon.”

Suddenly, as if she were changing clothes, she transforms seamlessly into Gloria.

She poses to show off her legs, before saying, “Does this ring a bell?”

“A few, yeah.” I mumble before lying back down to stare at the ceiling, “I don’t know why you’re here though…of all people. I heard you betrayed the order.”

"You heard correctly."

“So, what do you want from me?” I ask.

“What do I want?” There’s a touch of humour in her voice at the implication, “What I want from you, sugar, is absolutely nothing. I think you’re being a little paranoid.”

I don’t disagree with her, “Gloria wasn’t it?”

She comes into my field of vision, looking down at me with one hand on the backseat of the couch. She’s back to being the black-leather blonde. “Trish.”

“Trish…” I scoff. “Of course it was a fake name.”

“Of course,” She smiles.

“So why am I here?”

“Dante dropped you off.”

My heart turns to lead, and suddenly I feel like I'm sinking into the cushions. “Dante…?”

“You remember him, I’m sure.”

“I do.”

“Good, would’ve been terribly rude if you didn’t.”

I take a whiff of the room and catch his musk. I can't believe I missed it before, “is this his place?”

“Sure is.”

Completely unaware of how I was feeling about the situation, Trish grabs the glass of water I’d put down and hands it to me with a wink, “Welcome to Devil May Cry.”

It only takes her a minute or two to catch me up on what this place is, how it works and who owns it. It’s simply a devil hunting business, owned by none other than the son of Sparda. This place would be perfect for me. If only I cared to have a place.

Doing my best to stay sociable I say, “I never pictured Dante as the Pink Floyd type.”

“He’s not. You can thank me for the background music.”

“I don’t hand out my ‘thank you’s so easily.” I take another swig of my water, careful not to choke considering I’m lying down, “What’s the song called?”

“It’s ‘Shine on you crazy diamond’.”

“Ha,” I decide to sit up properly, even though it sends my brain for a few loops. “Where's Dante...by the way?”

“On a mission. He dropped you off with me and went back to it.”

Drops me off like laundry and leaves, huh? Can’t complain too much there; I wouldn’t want to hang around a suicidal drunk either. Even so, I kind of want to see him…but at the same time, I don’t. Christ, I don’t know what I want anymore. My plan was screwed and I’m back to overthinking things. Even as I’m speaking to Trish so pleasantly — more pleasantly than I’ve ever spoken to anybody in a long while — my mind is dealing with everything that’s happened. My guilt is still with me.

Kyrie was gone now. I didn't get to her in time, I took too long fucking around with puzzles and getting distracted by Dante outside. Maybe if I'd been a little more devoted to her, things would've turned out differently, I would've leaped out of the Saviour's head with her in my arms, beautiful and whole, and walked up to Dante with a bantering response ready on my tongue like a gunslingers firearm. But that's not how it went at all.

I still remember, after it was all done, how me and Dante parted ways.

I walked up to him, empty handed of a warm body, with the Saviour sufficiently pulverized behind me. Even half wrecked with guilt and loss, my brain still had the time to admire how Dante looked, and I hated myself for that.

After everything I'd done, after how badly I'd fucked up, I tried to do something right by giving back Yamato to Dante. It was his after all. But he told me to keep it. 

"What?" I said, "I thought this meant a lot to you."

"Well that's the only gift worth giving."

"Sure this isn't out of pity?" I let the anger seep into my voice.

"I wouldn't give something so important to me out of sympathy, kid. I want to entrust it to you so I am."

I looked down at Yamato, at it's regal design, and saw a fraction of my reflection in it's blade. I was a wreck, my eyes were bloodshot from the tears I'd been holding back this entire time. I looked like a flustered child, and it pissed me off.

"I failed, Dante," I whispered brokenly, looking him in the eye, "I failed."

Now the look he gave me really was one of sympathy. His hand clutched into a fist by his side, before loosening again.

"You didn't fail, Nero." He told me, using my name, "You saved the world. That's all that matters at the end of the day. Never forget that."

And that was it. We parted ways on that, yet I was still left with the hope that we'd see each other again.

When I close my eyes though, I see her. I see Kyrie there...half dissolved...god, it's enough to make me sick. I see Credo falling after telling me to run, after fulfilling the hope in my heart that he hadn't disowned me as a brother. Now they're both gone.

I must look as much of a wreck on the outside as I feel on the inside, with my head in my hands and feeling a mournful moan on my lips, ready to peel out and lead to another session of tears and curses. I suck it in though, as I feel Trish’s hand on my shoulder.

“You alright?” She asks and it sounds off, it’s certainly not a voice that’s use to showing concern.

It takes me a moment, but I force out, “M’fine.”

I sit up, rubbing my face as I say, “I should get going.”

Suddenly her hand has some weight behind it. She forces me back down on the couch and says. “No dice, kiddo. You’re staying right there until Dante gets back.” She chuckles again and goes, “Doctors orders.”

She thinks I’m going to listen it seems, but I’m not going to be friendly no more. I’m tired and angry and done. I eye her venomously, looking between her face and the hand on my shoulder.

“Get your hand off me.” I warn her. “Or I’m breaking it off.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Threatening me now? Well, I’m afraid it needs some work.”

I’m about to make good on my promise, when the doors at the front of the office get kicked open.

The wind has picked up outside, and the draft carries with it a scent. It me hits me like a punch in the gut, and suddenly I'm back to curling over my knees with my head in my hands, trying to block my thoughts out. His musk is on the air and I inhale it deeply despite myself, enjoying it. I glance over and see him standing there, his tattered red coat slung over his shoulder, completely ruined and in need of repair, or replacement. Leaving him a bare-chested cowboy, boots and leather chaps and all.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dante calls out, before kicking the doors closed behind him again.

Trish finally let's go and gestures for the doors, behind Dante.

"How timely! See? Didn't take long, did it? You may go now." She says.

"No, he may not." Dante announces as he strides straight over to the knocked over wardrobe in the corner. he straightens it upright before fishing around inside for a new coat, throwing the old one on the floor.

"My mistake. You may not." She grins down at me, but I'm not paying attention to her anymore, and she knows it.  
  
Dante looks between us, aware of the tension between us that had built up in his absence, "You should probably step out for a moment Trish, me and the kid have a lot of catching up to do, a big talk to have. All that jazz." As he's saying this he's pouring a drink for himself and another glass of water for me.

"Much needed guy talk, of course. I'll leave you boys to it. I'm late to the rendezvous with Lady anyhow." And like that, she just strolls out, leaving me to my own devices.


	3. Chapter 3

  
I stare down at the table and take another swig of water. Through the glass I see Dante place a piece of paper down on the table.

“Demons in the pub,” he says, “nothing too big. It was kind of boring, but I wasn’t expecting to see you there.”

I grit my teeth but don’t say anything. I skim read the paper and discover it’s a phone number, an address and a brief description that doesn’t fit “demons in a pub” but more along the lines of…

Dante taps the paper, “This job is an infested subway. Right underneath us, can you imagine?"  
  
I imagine it.

"Rich guy called me up, said he wanted to bring back connections to other cities or something, but there’s a horde in the underground that’s stopped folks from going down there. In fact, one person got brave and tried to scout it out, they found him hung up 2 miles out of town with his lungs slung over his shoulders. Now _that_ sounds like fun.”

Dante then stands up and brandishes his big, fuck-off sword, cracking some kinks in his neck as he does, “I figured a few demons in a pub wouldn’t be enough for you.”

Not enough for me? I recall being overwhelmed by _one_ who ended up face-fucking me in an alleyway. Maybe he hadn’t caught that part. It’s all a bit fuzzy for me, honestly. Still I can't help but feel a fiery sense of humiliation, but Dante seems content to brush it all off as if it never happened. Good, I can appreciate that he’s keeping his mouth shut for once.

“You need a caretaker or something?” I croak. “I don’t get why you’d tell me about this job.”

“Would you believe I need a robin to my batman? Stop complaining and get your gun.”

I pat my thighs down, before realising this outfit doesn’t even have a gun-holster, “Where _is_ my gun?”

Dante produces blue rose with a quick draw and a whirl, presenting the ornate handle to me.

I glare at him for daring to touch my baby.

“Don’t be a brat, you got vomit on it. I cleaned it for you.” He says.

Fair enough. I take it from him and slide it into a belt loop. I look around the room for my guitar holder, and subsequently red queen.

“Wheres my sword…?” I mumble.

He just shrugs, “Didn’t see it.”

I do a double take.

“You didn’t…” I look him in the eye, “You mean I didn’t have it with me?”

“nope, you just had your gun.”

“Wait so…” I whisper, “Oh no…shit….no…”

I try to wrack my brain. Where did I put it…? I remember it being on my person, along with my gun, when I was on the train here. this outfit doesn’t have a gun holster but it has a sword holster. I took it off somewhere, must’ve been before the pub. My money too…where was my money? Where did my drunk ass put my god forsaken sword…

Dante sees my arm start to glow a moment before I'm up on my feet and raising it above my head.

I lash out with an enlarged projection of my fist and send Dante’s couch across the room with a roaring, _“God damn it all!”_

Cushions fly everywhere before the frame crashes into a wall.

He quickly ran after his furniture, “hey, now! I don’t come into your abode and trash the place!”

I’m still fuming as he sets it back where it belongs. I sit down, cross legged with my claws in my hair.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid! I was so sure I was going to be _dead..."_

“Well you’re not. We’ll find it somewhere, it’s sure to rock up eventually. For now, you can borrow one of my weapons, I have enough for an entourage anyway.”

I pause at that and let my blood simmer down from a boil to a warm still. With it, the room finally settles and Dante pours me another glass of water.

After a few beats the roaring in my ears is gone, and all I can hear is the ticking of the clock.

“You wanna know why I’m here….?” I ask him, taking the new glass from his hands, careful not to meet his fingers. “What I’m doing in your town?”

His reply;

“That’s your business, kid.”

And that was the end of it. He doesn’t prod me for an explanation for my behavior. Doesn’t try to give me some life lessons. We gather together our supplies, and by the time we leave his shop, I almost feel better than roadkill.

Honestly I wish I’d just said “thanks for the water” and left. But that’s not what I’m doing for some reason. Now my high has fallen, suicide is starting to sound like a scary premise again. No matter my head space though, I’m going to do it. It’s just as simple as a purposeful mistake during a horde battle…that’ll do it. I will do it. Eventually.

The streets are bright and warm at this time of day and I realize I’ve probably been knocked out at Dante’s shop for a good few hours. This doesn’t ease my worries about where my money and sword has gone by any fucking stretch, especially as this city looks ready to come alive and eat it’s inhabitants even in the early afternoon. It was a huge leap from Fortuna, where even at it’s most decrepit, would still glow with a holy light from the ground to the tallest pillar.

We’re walking to the subway -- Capulet Underground, it was called -- and it hasn’t even been a block before Dante’s broken the silence, “So who’s the lucky bride?”

“What?” I blurt.

“You look like you’re done up for a wedding, kid. Or you did before you got puke all over yourself. Rough night last night?”

So he isn’t going to pretend like nothing happened. Great.

“Just drop it.” I tell him.

He doesn’t, but I do. I ignore everything out of his mouth for the next few minutes. It’s all jests and jabs, nothing personal. Nothing of substance, so I doubt he really cares.

I take this time to study the weapon he’d given me instead; a purple electric guitar. Honestly I'm not sure if this is his idea of a joke or if I'm suppose to use it as a club.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m not trained in bardic song.” I tell him.

Dante chuckles, “Play AC-DC, that should work. When we get there, of course. For now keep it down or the neighbors will have my head.”

The neighbors? I look around. This part of the city is a ghost town, now that we were getting close to the abandoned subway. There’s a rusted school bus half-buried in rubble and street kids by a barrel fire. One of them makes a jacking off gesture when he catches me staring at him before scurrying off with his buddies, abandoning their bonfire. Other than them, there's nobody, nothing except the crackling of fire and the haunting sound of far away traffic, indifferent to this shell of a place.

“I don’t see or hear any neighbors.” I tell him.

“I do,” and he pulls out his twin pistols as if to get his point across.

Not a moment too late, except I completely am, I hear something bump against metal. I draw blue rose and have it aimed at a dumpster we just passed.

“Bit jumpy there, kid,” Dante says, but not a second later, we’re already surrounded.

The barrel fire is snuffed out by a whirlwind of purple energy. Forming a ring around us are five...no, make that seven demons. Red-faced and tall with black cloaks, crackling with power. These aren't like those ant-things I'd grown familiar with in Fortuna, their faces were more like Venetian masks. 

Now would be a good time to practice my chord progression. I sling around the strange purple guitar I had been lent, and pray Dante likes 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'.


End file.
